


Tears

by Lykegenia



Series: Rosslyn Cousland [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Dialogue, Cousland Origin Feels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, OC: Rosslyn Cousland - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 10:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7840603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, three times Alistair saw Rosslyn Cousland cry, and one time he didn't. Nobody ever said it would be easy to save the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lothering

**Author's Note:**

> This is now quite an old fic (relatively) and follows in-game events more than my headcanon where Riordan is less secretive and Loghain survives to kill the archdemon. What can I say, I like to have my cake and eat it too.

For the third time that night, Alistair stumbled over a root – it might have been a rock. It was completely dark now, the trees had pesky, low-hanging branches that slapped his face or snared the top of his pack, and his stomach rumbled to remind him just how many hours it had been since he last ate. Ahead of him, Morrigan wound with annoying grace around the obstacles that never failed to trip him, and to his rear he heard the tramp of the qunari murderer Rosslyn insisted tag along with them. _She_ was somewhere in the dimness ahead, forging through the underbrush with a determination surprising even for her. He imagined it might have something to do with the horde of darkspawn prickling at the edge of his Warden senses.

“Perhaps we should stop here,” the red-haired chantry sister, Leliana, called out when they reached a small but serviceable clearing. “It would be wise to set up camp before it becomes too dark to see what we are doing, no?”

That was a tactful way to put it.

Already on the farther edge of the trees, Alistair could just make out the glint of Rosslyn’s armour as she halted, still with her back to them, the dark bulk of her mabari at her heel.

“Fine,” she replied, after too long a pause. “Sten, Alistair, set up the tents. Leliana, you and Morrigan can sort out food and a fire. I’m going with Cuno to find water.” An unfamiliar, gravelly quality roughened her voice, but almost before she finished speaking she swung her pack to the ground, snatched up the pails they used to boil water, and marched away, swallowed up by the trees.

The remaining companions set about their appointed tasks in terse silence. Alistair had never been keen on silence.

“Hey, is it me, or is it getting lighter?” he asked after he finished setting up the third tent.

Sten grunted.

“Guess it’s just me, then.”

“Over there,” said Morrigan. Her face lifted from the newly-kindled campfire towards the south, the direction they had come from. A hazy, orange glow suffused the sky, like a canvas painted with the dawn by someone who had never seen the sun. as they watched, it grew brighter.

Alistair frowned. “What _is_ that?”

At his side, he heard Leliana gasp. “It’s Lothering,” she whispered.

“Lothering?”

“The darkspawn have razed it.” Rosslyn strode back into camp, almost staggering under the weight of the two water cans, though she stubbornly refused to let Alistair take one when he went over to offer his help. “We left just in time.”

“All those people,” Leliana choked through her trembling fingers. “The Revered Mother, Ser Bryant, Miriam…”

As she dropped to her knees and muttered a fervent, unintelligible prayer to the Maker, Alistair looked round at the others. Sten scowled at the cloud of curdling smoke, and even Morrigan had gone still, the corners of her mouth turned down in regret. He wheeled on Rosslyn.

“There must be something we can do,” he reasoned.

She blinked at him, as if reminding herself of his presence. “What can we do?”

“We can go back – or, we can look for survivors – help protect those who got away.” Maker’s breath, why was she just standing there, why was she looking at him so calmly with that damned noble mask of indifference that he had seen so many times before, on so many different faces.

He wasn’t quite prepared for her cold bark of laughter.

“And what good would that do?” she asked mildly. “One way or another, there’s nobody left in Lothering now.” She pushed past him towards the campfire and began arranging the cooking poles so the water could be set to boil.

“How can you be so detached about this!” he demanded, storming up to her. “How can you just sit there?”

“What would you rather I do?” she retorted in the same cool voice, not looking at him.

“What do you mean, ‘what should you do’? Anything! Help me go back, come up with a plan! You couldn’t wait to get away from Lothering. Why don’t you at least act like you care even a little bit?”

He snapped backwards when she surged to her feet, fists clenched, spinning so her face was a scant few inches away from his. He never noticed before quite how tall she was.

“Is that what you think?” she hissed. “That I don’t care? What in the Maker's name do you know? _Nothing_ can be done.”

“Andraste’s left foot, Lothering is on fire!”

She reeled back, smoothing out the snarl on her face, drowning her anger once more in practiced composure. “Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Just be grateful you’re not there to see it.” She swallowed, and Alistair saw slivers of light dance at the corners of her eyes. “Be grateful the wind is from the north so we don’t have to smell the corpses, and that the trees are thick enough we don’t hear the screams of the people who didn’t get out in time.”

He gulped, seeing too late that she trembled.

“Be grateful, Alistair, that it’s not your _home_ burning to the ground… with your family still inside.”

Chest heaving with the effort to stay calm, she shook her head and turned away. The haze in the southern sky fixed her attention, and with her face in shadow tears made shining tracks through the grime on her cheeks. Such a strong reaction spoke of more than just empathy for Lothering’s lost citizens. Maker’s breath, this was – this was personal.

“Rosslyn, I -”

“Don’t tell me I don’t care,” she rasped, cutting him off. “Just leave me alone.”

Before he could respond, she whistled for Cuno, who barged roughly into Alistair on his way to his mistress’s side, and the two of them once more left the camp for the unobtrusive darkness of the trees.


	2. Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the events in Redcliffe has brought back memories for more than one member of the party, and Alistair decides to do something about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is set in a timeline where our intrepid Grey Wardens decide to visit Redcliffe before going to the Circle, because neither of them know what to do and they hoped Arl Eamon would have answers.

In camp, the atmosphere was tense. They left Redcliffe behind two days ago, travelling west then north into the Hinterlands so they could avoid the swarm of darkspawn around Lothering and still make it to Denerim in good time. They saw nobody on the road, and even though they had saved Connor, the memories of Redcliffe’s pyres stunted conversation into non-existence.

They used the evenings to see to their supplies. While Morrigan and the Circle mage, Wynne, inventoried their store of poultices and healing herbs, Sten salted meat from the deer Leliana had shot that morning. Alistair had already purloined the sinews to fix the frayed lacing on the straps that held his armour together. Nights of battling corpses and abominations had left dents in the plate and scratches on the well-oiled leather.

Rosslyn sat cross-legged a little way off from the rest of them, Cuno’s warm bulk resting against her thigh. She scowled at the fire as she ran the whetstone along the edge of her father’s sword, every now and then testing its sharpness with the pad of her thumb. Occasionally, she set aside her tools and reached out to scratch her dog behind the ears, but her mind was clearly far away. On the bedroll next to her, a bowl of stew sat uneaten, congealing in the cold air.

“She is quite lovely, isn’t she?”

Alistair turned at the remark, his mouth twisting into a sour line. “Stay away from her,” he growled.

Their newest companion held up his hands in surrender. “I meant no harm, my friend, but, you think so, don’t you? That she is beautiful?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alistair huffed.

“You mean you don’t notice her hair, her fair complexion, her noble carriage? Why else would you be staring at her so, ah… avidly?”

“I wasn’t – that’s not…” he stuttered, feeling his ears go pink. “Not all of us are perverts, _Zevran_. I’m worried about her.”

“I take it this is not her usual manner of behaviour, then?” the elf mused. “Perhaps I should go over there and cheer her up.”

“I told you to leave her alone.”

Alistair rubbed his hand along his jaw as he watched the elf saunter away, unsure of what to do. Death hounded them, gave them no peace, and at every turn some new disaster snarled their plans to gather the people of Ferelden and bring an end to the Blight. Guilt gnawed at his belly; how dishonourable to baulk at the pressure of leadership and foist it off onto Rosslyn, who had been left to flounder and yet had planted her feet and stared down the shadow of her grief in order to save the world. Next to his own wallowing after Ostagar, her seemingly boundless confidence and grace had made it too easy for him to ignore the depth of her own loss.

No more. He had learned since Lothering.

She startled when he approached, hastily wiping evidence of tears from her cheeks.

“Is something the matter?” she asked, with something she must have intended as a smirk. “I saw you and Zevran arguing.”

“I, um…”

A smudge of dark oil clung to the left side of her nose, distractingly adorable.

He twisted his fingers together to quell the urge to rub the blemish clean with his thumb. “Can I sit down?”

She lay her sword on the grass and wiggled sideways on the bedroll, her hand occupied in scratching Cuno’s neck when he rolled over and groaned in protest at being moved. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just wanted to thank you,” Alistair said.

A smile pulled at Rosslyn’s mouth. “Thank me? For what?”

“You went out of your way to save the arl’s family,” he explained, threading his fingers in his lap.  “And you didn’t have to -”

The smile vanished as she looked away. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“What?”

“I risked the lives of everyone in Redcliffe because I couldn’t bear to do what had to be done,” she snapped, bitterly shrinking into herself. “Because all I could see when I looked at Connor was Oren.”

Alarmed at the direction their conversation was taking, Alistair reached out, then paused, unsure where his hand would do the least damage. Dealing with women had never been an issue; all the female Templar apprentices were too zealous or too busy bullying him, and the one or two Grey Warden women he saw had been gnarled and unapproachable as old briars. Her knee? Too intimate. Her shoulder? He didn’t want to seem unsympathetic. But she really was sitting very close to him.

Eventually, he settled for wrapping his fingers with hers where they picked at the seam of her doeskin breeches, offering a light squeeze that he hoped was reassuring.

“Who’s Oren?” he asked.

She sniffed. “My nephew.”

Cuno whined and sat up so he could push his wide head close and whiffle in his mistress’s ear. The slobbery lick he planted along the side of her face made her recoil into Alistair’s side with a disgusted grunt and playfully push the dog away. When Cuno melodramatically collapsed on his back she batted his paws away and scratched the downy fur along his chest. But the vigour of the belly rubs faded, and she couldn’t quite choke the sob that rattled through her next breath. The grip on Alistair’s handed tightened like it was a lifeline.

“He’s – he was – five. My brother’s son,” she murmured. “He used to call Cuno ‘Pony’ and try to ride him, and he’d make me climb the apple trees in the orchard to get the best fruit before the wasps did.”

A sigh shuddered past her lips and Alistair found himself tracing his thumb along the line of her knuckles.

“I have all these memories of him, but all I can see when I think about him is…” She swallowed. “Howe’s men… they slit his throat when they attacked Highever. He was still in his bed when I found him.”

“I didn’t know,” Alistair breathed. How had she carried this all alone? What of the rest of her family?

“I can still… but I shouldn’t have let it influence me.” Steel crept back into her voice. She was thinking about Connor again. “I was stupid.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied. “You made the right choice.”

“Would you be saying that if the demon escaped?” she growled. “If it killed everyone in Redcliffe before we got back with the lyrium and the mages? If we hadn’t survived the Circle it would still be possessing Connor and there would be nothing standing between it and the people it wanted to hurt.” She ripped her fingers from his grasp and ran them through the loose tumble of her hair. “It was a stupid decision. It won’t happen again. It _can’t_ happen again.”

This was clearly a dismissal, a way to rebuild the wall she had let crack under the strain. Head bowed and braced on her hands, sucking at her bottom lip to hold in the tears, Alistair nearly let her get away with it.

“You’re wrong,” he told her.

She glanced up sharply. “What?”

“There’s been so much death and destruction. You went out of your way to help, even when it would have been easier not to.” Realising his voice was starting to carry across the campsite, Alistair cleared his throat. “It makes me feel good, actually, to know that we can have hope, that we were able to save _something_ at least, even if it was small.” He peeked sideways and hoped she wasn’t about to hit him.

Rosslyn was regarding him carefully, weighing him up like she did with strangers they met on the road. Silver drops bunched on her eyelashes when she blinked.

“And next time?” she asked, timid. “What if hope isn’t enough and people die?”

“Then you’ll have tried,” he answered. He bit his lip and felt for the pocket where he had stashed what he wanted to show her. “Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?”

With a sly tilt to her eyebrows, she accepted the flower he offered. “It’s a rose?” she checked. It had been picked a while ago, its dark petals now withered to the texture of paper, but it was perfectly preserved, and even retained a hint of perfume.

“It smells like summer,” she hummed, pressing it to her nose.

“I picked it in Lothering. I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn’t. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it, so I’ve had it ever since. It gives me hope that something so beautiful could still exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness.”

Rosslyn flicked her gaze to him, a tiny, genuine smile warming her cheeks. “You know, you’re not so much the fool you say you are.”

“You must be rubbing off on me,” he chuckled, bumping his shoulder companionably against hers.

Somehow, they didn’t pull apart after that, but remained touching; thighs, arms pressed against each other through the linen of their shirts, little fingers just brushing. The basking warmth such contact stoked in Alistair’s chest roared higher as Rosslyn leaned more weight on him – wavered – and rested her head against his shoulder. Tension melted out of her with a weary sigh.

“No, keep it,” he said when she tried to pass it back to him. A blush crept up his neck and flushed his cheeks at the strange, speculative look he found when he peered down at her face. But she had stopped crying. He had done that. It made him feel brave. “I… I don’t really need it,” he explained. “In a lot of ways, I feel the same way when I look at you, actually, so… ah…” he faltered when Rosslyn turned her face into his sleeve and giggled.

“Thank you, Alistair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts welcome!


	3. Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it a test of faith, a test of character, or something else entirely?

The party shuddered as the final spirit – echo, whatever it was – passed over their heads and sank into the heavy wooden door. Within the lock, a mechanism clunked. The sound echoed around the ruined chamber, ominous enough to put them on guard, even if mortal weapons would do little good against mind-reading guardians, riddling spirits, and whatever else the Gauntlet decided to throw at them next.

When the door swung outward and revealed no monster about to slake its appetite on them, Alistair puffed a deep sigh of relief.

“Well, that was a lot less painful than I was expecting.” He sheathed his sword and rubbed a hand through his hair. “This place is going to give me grey hairs.”

Leliana chuckled, but in the vast space the sound was forced. “I think you’d look quite distinguished with some grey in your hair. But of course, it’s not _my_ opinion on the subject that matters.”

“Heh, you’re right,” Alistair replied, thankful for an opportunity to rope Rosslyn into their banter. After the confrontation with the Guardian she had shrugged off his hand, choosing instead to grit her teeth and forge ahead with a single-minded silence that he hadn’t seen since the first days after Ostagar.

“What do you think, love? Will I age gracefully or is Leliana just making fun of me again?” He smiled over at her, but frowned when she ignored him. “Rosslyn? What’s wrong?”

Unlike the rest of their party, she had kept her two blades to hand, though they had fallen from the guard position. Something at the end of the corridor transfixed her attention. Her feet moved with the jerky steps of a dreamer, her eyes narrowed on the stranger far ahead of them. She halted again.

“Rosslyn?” Leliana’s smile faded in concern. “What’s the matter?”

Rosslyn sucked in a heavy breath as she rocked forwards again. “It can’t be…”

At her heels, Cuno stood rigid, hackles raised, unnerved by turmoil coursing through his mistress but unable to pinpoint its source. He looked askance at Alistair, who was already reaching out to try and bring Rosslyn back to the present. His hand slipped from her arm like water along steel and he could only watch as she was drawn towards the man at the end of the hall, unable to calm the ragged whistle of breath between her teeth.

They could do nothing but follow.

She stopped a clean six feet from the figure, within striking distance if he proved dangerous. Then he turned around and her blades fell from limp fingers, useless, and the clang of metal on stone as they hit the ground rang like a heartbeat through the hall.

“No…”

The man smiled. His weathered face creased like it was an expression he used often. “My dearest child.”

Sten grunted. “Who is that?”

Wynne, faster to fit the pieces, muttered back, “Perhaps this is something we shouldn’t see.”

At the head of their party, Rosslyn squared her shoulders, fists balled, and stepped forward. “What kind of trick are you?” she demanded through her trembling. “My father is dead. I know it. I _remember_ it.”

The man’s smile crumpled, his eyes glassy with regret as he searched the young woman’s face. This was no mere shadow like the previous ghosts had been. This was Bryce Cousland, solid and sentient, reaching out to soothe his daughter’s pain like any loving father would. Alistair recognised the high slope of his forehead and the full curve of his mouth, but found himself rooted to the spot, unwilling and unable to intervene.

“I am dead,” the echo sighed, his hand lifting to cup her cheek. “And all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back.”

She swallowed; held in her breath; collapsed as the bubble of grief tore from her lungs. “Father…” The fabric of his doublet scrunched under her fingers as she pulled herself into the ghost’s embrace, his stubble scratched at her skin, but the scent of heather and books, steadfast since childhood, was missing. She clung on all the same. “I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, shh,” the Bryce-echo murmured into her hair. “No more must you grieve, my girl.”

With a cry Rosslyn tore herself free, though her fingers still grasped for the woollen sleeves like they had when she was five years old and leaning into the wind on the battlements of Castle Cousland. The world fell away before her then, too. “I can’t!”

“Take the pain and guilt, acknowledge it, and let go.”

“But it was my fault!” she insisted, panicked. “I left you! And you – I should have… done something more. I should have stayed…” She gulped, breath choked with the bitter poison of her guilt. “But I ran away. Forgive me, I ran away.”

The Bryce-echo pushed back ebony wisps of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. “It is time, Pup.”

“No! Don’t go, don’t leave me again.” Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his cold wrists, anywhere to keep him real for just a few seconds longer. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh my beautiful girl, I can’t stay. You have such a long road ahead of you, and you must be prepared. And so, I leave this in your hands.” He untangled the two of them as gently as a noblewoman might a dress caught on a briar, tucking something icy smooth into her palms as he pulled away. “I know you will do great things with it. I am so proud of you.”

It was an amulet, forged from everite and embossed with a primitive version of the Cousland arms, the leaves of the garland rubbed smooth by generations of her family. Rosslyn traced the familiar lines of the heirloom with shaking fingers, certain that the last time she had seen it had been…

“This is -” She glanced up. “Father!”

No answer came. She licked her lips, cradling the amulet to her chest. The others were little more than shadows on the edge of her consciousness. She had to find him, bring him back, make sure he understood how much she wished she could have –

A heavy gauntlet fell against her neck. “He’s gone,” Alistair told her gently.

Bewildered, Rosslyn’s eyes roved the hall, skittering over the sympathetic tears drying on Leliana’s cheeks without comprehension. Wynne and Sten regarded her with solemn eyes, and Cuno pressed so hard into her hip he would have fallen over if she moved. Her gaze fell to the hand gripping her shoulder. Alistair held her steady, his touch an anchor to the waking world, his eyes a golden well of earnest strength while her own vision swam at the edges.

“I should – I need to tell him – I should have stayed…”

Her legs buckled as the last of her words were swallowed by sobbing. Alistair caught her before her knees could hit the cold flagstones, tucking her face into the crook of his neck where she could hide from everyone while he murmured reassurance into her ear.

“There must be something we can do,” Leliana whispered, distraught.

Wynne shook her head. “Sometimes the poison needs to be drawn out completely before the wound can heal. And she’s carried this wound a long time.”

Beside them, Sten gave a faint nod of his head, acknowledging the wisdom in the mage’s words. After all, he had once believed his sword lost forever, and remembered the pain and guilt of his failure. Watching his leader rock and weep, cradled in the lap of her fellow Grey Warden, he recognised the relief brought by closure. Soft comfort was not his talent, so he picked up her swords from where they had fallen, and lay them next to her.

“We should keep moving, Kadan,” he rumbled. “There is still much to be done.”

The words earned him a glare from Alistair, who tightened the protection of his embrace despite the awkward bulk of their armour.

“Can’t you give her even one minute?” he snapped.

Rosslyn sniffed into his neck, a placating hand laid his chest as she tilted her head away. “No, he’s – he’s right,” she said, smiling through the hitch in her breath. “I’m alright – really.”

Everything Alistair could think of to reassure her – her parents had wanted her to live; she had already helped so many people trying to end the Blight; if she had died he never would have met her – they all knotted in his throat so that all he could do was brush away errant strands of her hair and press a chaste kiss to her forehead.

“Are you sure?”

With a wet chuckle she returned the kiss to his lips, lingering a moment to savour his warmth and the safe circle of his arms.

“I still have you,” she replied, tracing her thumb along the familiar lines of his face. “All of you.” She turned to the rest of their party and stood, squaring her jaw, once more settled into the grace of leadership. “Let’s go get what we came for.”


	4. Redcliffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One time he didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you all know what's coming...

A Cousland always does her duty.

But what counts as duty? All those months ago, standing over the field at Ostagar, if the archdemon had appeared and a sacrifice been asked, she would have dived headlong into the fray. She would have jumped down its gullet and stuck in its craw and so murdered it by choking if it meant an end to the Blight and a glorious death through _duty_. At the start of all this, Rosslyn had wanted to die; she hadn’t realised until Riordan pronounced his sentence just how much that had changed.

The sound of her boots echoed through the castle’s corridor, Alistair’s beside her matching it to create a tempo that mocked the pounding of her heart in her ears. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t touch him as they made the long march to where Morrigan waited for their answer. She hadn’t thought about it for years, but as a child, she had fallen through the ice on the Donmarl River chasing after her scarf, blown over the snow by the wind. The clammy murk, the silence, the heat that welled in her face only to be stolen away with her breath by the merciless current – all were sensations she had thought long since buried.

How had it come to this? She tried to remember – the Landsmeet, Loghain and Howe meeting justice on the sword – she and Alistair had talked of marriage, he was going to be king – the Blight would end and they would return to Denerim triumphant and ready to start a new life. Happy.

And now…

_The essence of the archdemon is destroyed… and so is the Grey Warden._

She had known. Somehow, through all their wanderings and the nightmares that robbed her of sleep, the thought had nagged at her. Saved from Highever, Ostagar, Lothering, and all the battles in between, she had known the Maker planned an even grander death for her.

_So it’s up to us to kill this thing._

Riordan had said it should be him, but that was never how the stories went. Enough heroes had rooted in her family tree for Rosslyn to recognise the warp and weave of the future, the duty that lay a glorious death. Alistair had been quiet as the grave beside her, unreachable, the leather of his gauntlets creaking as his fists tightened in wordless, hopeless anger. And what comfort could she have offered him?

And then Morrigan, with poisoned words dripping from her silver tongue. A way out. A way not to die. And the only thing asked in return was the basest form of betrayal.

A Cousland does her duty. Call it pride or horror or nobility or the mean stirring of jealousy in the pit of her stomach, but Rosslyn had recoiled from the offer, fighting the urge to retch as she fled from the witch and what she proposed. She would rather die than barter Alistair’s services like a farmer setting a ram out to stud. She _would_ die. Her tragedy would come full circle and he would never have to know, and in his hands Ferelden would be safe.

Now they stood outside the witch’s door with shame creeping up her neck like ivy around a ruin. One look at his face had been enough to sway her from her composure – the warm brown gaze, the loving touch, the rich voice she knew she could never survive losing. She had stood in the doorway, drinking in the sight of him, worried and trusting, and wondered if it was worth saving his life only to have him hate her forever.

Of course it was. The words came easily, though they made her stomach squirm. Not for nothing had she been raised as a noble lady, taught to deliver speeches with the cool detachment of an autumn breeze. At first he laughed, then she watched the lines of his face contract and deepen as the full weight of what she said settled in his heart. His anger washed over her like storm waves against the basalt cliffs of the Highever coast, his disbelief and disgust a welcome relief because of the mirror they provided. Hating herself was easier if he did it too.

“Look,” he said eventually. “Even if I was willing to entertain this idea – and I’m not saying I am – is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure…?”

They stood on opposite sides of the room, divided by the ugly _thing_ that lay between them. She wanted to go to him, kiss him, melt into the scent of his neck and apologise again and again until all thoughts of Morrigan vanished into the dark.

“What I want?” she repeated, her voice hollow, her gaze on the cobwebs wound around the unlit sconce on the far wall. “I want this to be over. All of this – the fear, the pain, people suffering. I’ve had enough.”

“Rosslyn -”

“I don’t want to die.” Her eyes found his at last, water-bright in the candlelight before sliding away again. “This ritual, I – this isn’t a decision I can make for you, and I won’t, I don’t have the right. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place. But I need you to know… I can’t do it again.”

Torn, Alistair started forward, but stopped. “What do you mean?”

 _Highever. Ostagar. Lothering._ Rosslyn’s fingers knotted the names together as she fought to steady her breath.

“I’m so tired,” she confessed. “And I can’t watch… I won’t let anyone else die in my place. Not you.” She glanced over to him, jaw set, chin raised. “Not while there is anything in my power to prevent it.”

Silence leached into the room, thick as clotted blood. Alistair opened his mouth several times to speak, but turned away with a shake of his head and his hand pressed against the back of his neck. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. He closed the space between them, taking her hands in his so he could brush his thumbs along the knuckles. Never once did his eyes leave Rosslyn’s face.

“I trust you.” He swallowed. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The words now echoed through her mind, drowning out the tremor in Alistair’s voice as he asked about the child the ritual would produce. _His_ child. Morrigan’s reply was terse, but the words made no sense through the buzzing in Rosslyn’s ears.

Mind numb, lungs empty of breath, cold gripping her bones. Like drowning, though so far her will had been strong enough to keep the tears at bay.

At last the talk was over, and the witch stepped between them to the door, her stiff back the only indication of her regrets. Rosslyn watched her go, fighting the wyrm that seethed red hatred in her gut and threatened to make her heave. Gritting her teeth, she forced her eyes away, finding Alistair instead. Such an ardent expression was not one she deserved, not least because she knew he was steeling himself for what he had promised to do. Once again it was he who closed the gap between them, wanting to speak but lost for words. His palm rested on her cheek; for an instant he pressed his forehead against hers and gripped her hand tight. And then the heat of him was gone, his fingers slipping through hers, and she stood tall as a warrior – a Cousland – should and watched him follow to where Morrigan waited with her ritual.

Only once the sound of his footsteps died away did Rosslyn let herself fall to her knees, curling over the guilt and revulsion that clawed up her throat, the pain of it a soundless cry as the first of her tears dripped against the cold stone hearth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shoutout to Kajana for modding that scene to make it a thousand times more bearable - and more painful - than the original scene in the game. Check out her other mods and her stories on ff.net. They're worth the read.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me this far - comments are always appreciated!


End file.
